


Three Years at Sea, After the Storm

by newamsterdam



Series: Hurricane Verse [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Developing Relationship, Historical Hetalia, Historical References, M/M, POV Multiple, POV Outsider, Post-World War II, Sequel, Vignettes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-18 15:38:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3574809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newamsterdam/pseuds/newamsterdam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If they expected a calm after the storm, they were mistaken. And as the world looks on, France and England try to pull themselves together despite all.</p><p>Or: the depth of a relationship, seen through the eyes of others. A sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2784614/chapters/6249467">For the Dust to Still</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a direct sequel to an earlier work, although I think both can be read independently. All you need to know is that England and France took care of each other during the last days of World War II, and now they're bringing that new aspect of their relationship into the years that follow.
> 
> Each chapter will be from the POV of a different character, set at a different point in time. You can follow updates via my tumblr, [aphnewamsterdam](http://aphnewamsterdam.tumblr.com/).

Allied-Occupied Berlin, 1947

In the year and a half since his surrender, Germany has yet to find his footing. He wakes up with a jerk from nightmares at odd hours, tumbling out of bed before he has a chance to stop himself. Bruises and broken bones have yet to heal, leaving him pained and disoriented. He feels, in many ways, as though he’s being weaned off of something addictive—the longing burns through him and leaves nothing in its wake, just scorched earth and a man who feels hollow and raw.

He cries out for his brother, some nights. He can feel him, knows he’s not very far away, but they haven’t seen each other in eighteen months. Prussia is likely not as undone by the surrender as Germany is. His brother will have stayed strong, and is probably negotiating for a much better position with Russia than Germany is with America. 

Sometimes, when Germany thinks these things, he laughs at himself. He scoffs and says, yes, that’s very true, and also the Allies will have treated Italy more than fairly, and the news coming in from Japan is just an exaggeration. And don’t worry, Germany, it isn’t your fault, even though you let yourself be swept up in violence and chaos. 

It is his fault. Every person in Germany knows it, from the eldest man to the youngest babe. The soldiers and officials awaiting trial know it, the women who’ve been violated know it, and the Germans who might’ve once been Poles or Czechs or Russians and now flee back to his war-torn land certainly know it. There is a reason they flee, after all. But most of all, the dead know it. 

It is his fault, and Germany is sure that there is one person in particular who won’t let him forget it. He can remember, very clearly, the last war and the last treaty. France had stood over him with cold eyes as he signed the documents, lips curled in distaste. Germany can remember the way he held himself upright, even though there was blood seeping through his uniform at the shoulders. France looked down on him, even though he was bloody and broken himself. He’d looked down and laughed in a cold, distant way, and Germany cannot forget the sound.

And that’s why he wonders what has taken France so long, why eighteen months pass before he arrives in Berlin to gloat. Germany very purposefully does not think of his own gloating in Paris, but even if he had given it thought he might not have remembered it clearly. Most days he wakes up feeling like he’s just surfaced from swimming, the world coming back into focus as the sound rushes to his ears.

He does wonder, perhaps masochistically, what France will say to him. The man has always cast a shadow over Europe, more so than any nation Germany can think of. He wants to know what doom that shadow will spell for him, this time.

In the early morning he’s escorted from the Spartan apartment where he’s been under house arrest by three guards—one America, one French, one British. They take him directly to one of the hollowed-out government buildings, repurposed for use by Allied forces. The walls are clean and white, all flags and portraits torn down. Germany prefers it this way.

They leave him in a conference room, mutter than Capitaine Bonnefoy will be along shortly. There is a coffee maker in one corner of the room, and Germany spends the time by making two cups. He sets them on opposite ends of the table, and waits.

Part of the cost of surrender is that he is often left alone with his own thoughts. His life has been dominated by purpose—by goals and regimens and efficiency—and so this new-found idle time is uncomfortable and unwelcome. It’s too easy to get lost in himself and his unfamiliar emotions, and by the time he looks up at the clock an hour has gone by.

The coffee has gotten cold. This rankles more than being kept waiting, because if he runs out he will have to ask America for more. For some reason, that humiliation seems more grating than the rest. 

More minutes trickle by. France is an hour and a half late. Incensed, Germany hoists himself to his feet, despite the way his sore muscles scream in protest. He isn’t allowed military dress, anymore, so he’s wearing serviceable dark trousers and a collared shirt. One arm is kept close to his chest in a sling; there’s a cloth bandage wound around his forehead to cover a new wound. He doesn’t look like a soldier, but that doesn’t mean he should be kept waiting.

He goes out into the hall—the guards are not there. Frowning, he continues walking. The doors to most rooms are open, revealing them to be empty. Soldiers pass him, some of his own, mostly Allied. They nod but do not stop him, and Germany pauses for a moment to absorb the fact that he is no longer considered a threat.

He’s approaching the end of the hall by the time he hears their voices, muffled at first. The last door is half-open, allowing Germany to glance inside. And what he sees there, he did not expect. He knows he should either announce his presence or walk away, but he remains frozen.

It’s a small office, occupied by a desk and one chair. France is sitting on top of the desk, dressed in a drab uniform. His legs are poised over the edge of the table at odd angles, as though he hoisted himself up without bothering to correct his position. One side of his face is marred by a wound just healing to scars. For a minute, Germany thinks that France is merely staring at his hands, speaking to himself. But then—

“You’re being a baby, you know.” England’s voice is sharp and clear, but it takes Germany a moment to realize that he’s standing directly behind France, his arms around the other’s waist. “This is hardly the most difficult thing you’ve had to do, lately.”

France sighs and leans back against England, his eyes fluttering closed. “I know. But that makes it even harder.”

England clicks his tongue and lays his hands over France’s. “Idiot. That doesn’t even make sense. It’s easier, so it’s harder? Listen to yourself.”

Germany is still standing, transfixed, in the doorway. He’s never seen these two stand still so long in each other’s presence before. Even while they’ve been allies, he’s always seen them on the battlefield or during negotiations. On the former they’re well in-sync, dancing around one another but in-tune to what they might require. And at the latter, it’s been the familiar biting words and barely-suppressed scorn. But this, despite the words, is nothing close to that.

“It’s harder, because it shouldn’t be,” France murmurs. “I thought that things would get easier, after everything. Arthur, why haven’t things gotten any easier?”

England finally comes into view, resting his chin on top of France’s head. He sighs, too, and Germany can see the deep shadows under his eyes and the gaunt angles of his face. “Nothing’s ever easy, frog. Haven’t you learnt that by now?”

France laughs hollowly. “Not for you, maybe. But I’d like it if struggles came and went, and left some sort of ease behind them. Not this constant mess. I’m tired of it.”

“I’ve been tired for twenty-five years.” England’s voice is biting, but heavy. “And you’re half the cause of that. So just shut up and do your duty.”

Germany licks his lips and sucks in his breath, trying not to make any noise. He feels distinctly uncomfortable, having come upon something so intimate. He supposes France must be used to being touched, must find nothing unusual about feeling England’s warmth all against his back. But the casual ease with which he lies against the other nation is utterly foreign to Germany. France’s eyes are still closed, and if England chose this moment to move away France would fall backwards. But England won’t, Germany realizes. He doesn’t know why, but the intimacy and trust of it makes his heart ache.

There’s silence, for a moment, and Germany swears that he can hear their heartbeats, the passing of each breath. But then France makes a choked noise and bites down on his lower lip, thin face contorting with pain for a moment.

“I can’t. Arthur, you know, you know I can’t. Sigmaringen was one thing, taking Berlin another. I’ve tried to push through this, you know I have. But I feel— _navré_ —I don’t know. It’s anger, but also sadness. And something else.”

His hands go clammy as Germany watches. He’s seen France in vulnerable positions before—he’s put France in vulnerable positions before. And he hadn’t been sorry at the time. But now France is still elegant in his broken victory, like something out of the portraits Italy had taken such pride in showing him. The very thought of Italy makes Germany bite down on his tongue, hard enough to draw blood.

England clears his throat. “I honestly can’t believe I’m asking, but—are you going to tell me what ‘else’ there is?”

France turns now, hiding his face against England’s chest. England lifts his arms to embrace France around his shoulders, holding him tightly against himself. If France says anything, Germany can no longer hear it. And to be frank, he doesn’t need to.

As quietly as he can, he retraces his steps away from the door. Even as he marches quickly back to the conference room, the image of France and England together chases him. Neither of them look particularly whole—they have their bruises and scrapes and bandages, the same as Germany. But Germany imagines that being so close almost makes up for those wounds, because they can lean on one another. 

Germany doesn’t know how they do it. Even now, his hatred burns through him like fire, untamable. How could two old enemies put fire aside and get to that? What would even make it possible? Illogically, he’s angry with them. It isn’t fair, that he should be so alone and they should have each other. It’s unjust.

By the time he makes it back to the conference room, he’s dragging his bad leg and his palms ache from clenching his fingers so tightly. The room is empty, just like it was when he’d left it. It’s empty, because his allies, the people he… the people he loves are gone. He doesn’t know when he’ll see them again, or if they’ll still love him when he does.

His gaze falls on the cups of coffee, left to cool to the point of being undrinkable. He thinks of France, sitting ensconced with England, not caring that he’s wasting one of the few precious things that Germany has left. Growling, he lashes out, swiping across the table with his good arm and sending the cups crashing against the sanitized white wall. The shattering sound is a comfort, just like the sludgy brown lines that drip down the wall. This place should be broken and dirty. There should be no love here at all.

Germany sits back down in his chair and waits, breathing heavily and focusing on the coffee stains. It might be half an hour, or only five minutes, but eventually he hears the door open. He takes a deep breath, and turns to see France.

The other nation is supported by a cane, walking slowly. His hair is brushed back from his face, his features set in hard lines that reveal none of the weakness he’d shown with England. As for the other, he’s nowhere to be seen.

“Allemagne,” France says slowly, pulling out a chair and easing himself into it. His gaze drifts briefly to the stain on the wall, but he doesn’t mention it. 

“Frankreich,” Germany responds, voice even and low. Then, blandly, he asks, “England won’t be joining us?”

France blinks in surprise, then smiles in a ghostly way. “Oh, no. He’s not officially here, you see. And I can’t imagine you’d want more of his company.”

Germany purses his lips. “It might be better than yours.”

France laughs at that, bright and forced. For the first time, Germany thinks he can see the cracks in this man’s armor. He’s half pageantry, and all that’s genuine about him is dark and ill-used. For some reason, that makes Germany feel better. 

“Now, then,” France says, “Shall we get to business?”

They do not offer each other apologies. Germany cannot make up for his actions with words, and doesn’t want France’s platitudes trying to make up for events long past. They stumble through the motions of negotiation, reassessing treaties and dancing around subjects they cannot yet face. But every time Germany looks up at France he sees the ghost of England behind him, keeping him steady and whispering in his ear. 

Germany did not need to wait to hear France’s last words to England, because he knew what they would be. He’s been living with guilt so long that he can immediately recognize it on another’s face. It may be unfair, that France should feel the way he does but still be loved. But as the meeting ends and Germany is escorted back home, he thinks it might give him hope. France is as hateful and guilty and broken as Germany is. The comparison shouldn’t comfort him, but it does.

But it’s still so damn lonely, when he goes to bed thinking of Italy and Japan and his brother. The hope hurts, because it grows up out of the charred remains of what he used to feel. He thinks of France and England and wonders if they’ll spend this night together, and he does not thank them for planting painful seeds among the wreckage he must tend alone.


	2. Chapter 2

New York, 1947

“I’m done.” England pushes his drink away with both hands, ignoring the slosh of liquid over the edge of the glass and over his fingers. It spills a little over the counter and onto Australia’s lap, but he doesn’t seem to notice that either. Instead, he rises decisively to his feet and looks around, like he’s expecting an honor guard to escort him from the bar.

Once upon a time, Australia would’ve jumped up to leave with him, if only because it’s fun to watch England stagger while he’s drunk. But tonight he keeps his seat, rubbing a hand over the wet patch England’s beer has left on his thigh. These pants were clean, this morning. He thinks New Zealand will laugh at the stains, take them as proof that Australia’s just pretending to be a more grown-up and proper nation than he actually is.

But who really cares what New Zealand thinks, anyway. 

No one has taken notice of England, who now stands with his arms over his chest and his nose in the air. He used to seem tall, to Australia, but now even sitting Australia can see over England’s head. He looks up, smiles lazily.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he suggests, taking a sip of his own beer. 

England huffs. “Perhaps.”

It’s a strange thing to say, since they’re in the middle of meetings for the latest Security Council resolutions. Australia’s only a non-permanent member, but he’s pretty sure that England has to attend every one of these meetings. But Australia’s good at letting inconsistencies roll off his shoulders, so he nods and waves as England leaves. 

The bar is more than half full, still, but even before England left it had felt as though the party was over. Russia had refused to come, at all, and Poland had glanced apologetically at the rest of them before following the taller nation back to their hotel. Syria didn’t want to come at all, and China had left early, citing a headache. Brazil and Belgium are good company, though, and so is America. And Australia still feels more comfortable with a drink in his hand than he does in a suit and tie, listening to applications for new nations to the UN. 

New Zealand had told him not to embarrass himself. He’ll never admit it, but he’s not sure if he has or not. 

“I suppose someone should see him safely back.” That’s France, who’d been sitting on the other side of America. His glass is mostly full, just like England’s. Australia wonders if either of them have actually drunken anything at all. “I’ll see you in the morning, my dears.”

He stoops to kiss Belgium’s cheek, and America’s forehead. No one really talks about it, but Australia secretly thinks that France still looks like Germany just marched over him yesterday. He combs his hair differently, these days, so that more of it falls over one eye and hides the scarred portions of his face. He makes it look elegant, but anyone could still see the old wounds. He still walks with a cane, but he turns his three-legged walk into a waltz.

After everyone’s waved goodbye to France, they go back to their drinks and don’t seem to mind their steadily dwindling number. Australia takes the opportunity to drain his own glass and then reach for England’s. It’s not exactly to his taste, but he’d rather drink it than let it go to waste. He wonders if this, too, can be considered foolish.

Without England around, he feels strangely isolated. He’s used to having New Zealand’s company, or Canada’s. He never knows quite what to make of America, who’s family to Canada and England and therefore should be family to him, as well. But they’ve never had that sort of relationship. At UN meetings, America holds court. He laughs with a wide smile—and it almost looks like New Zealand’s or England’s, there’s definitely a resemblance—but his eyes are shrewd behind his glasses. He spends most meetings watching Russia, or complaining about the other nation when he isn’t around. 

America orders another Coke, with a laugh that almost doesn’t sound forced. Australia had wondered if it was a joke, until Belgium told him that America had gotten carded, the first time. Now, he shakes his head and finishes off England’s drink. His gaze drifts over to the stool England had been sitting in, noticing the other nation’s charcoal gray suit jacket hanging over it. He sets down his glass and reaches for it, frowning.

“Arthur forgot his jacket,” he says, to no one in particular. 

America waves a dismissive hand. “Just bring it with you tomorrow.”

But Australia is already on his feet. “I’ll see if I can catch up with him,” he says brightly. 

“Jeez, you’re just like Matt. You guys know you’re not like, his butlers, right?” 

“I know.” Australia laughs as he agrees. “See you tomorrow!” 

He tucks the jacket over one arm and leaves a few bills on the bar, since he’s not about to skimp his bills. There’s an errant thought niggling at the back of his mind—something about why England hadn’t actually gotten drunk, tonight, or why France followed him so closely out of the bar. For some reason his train of thought keeps drifting back to New Zealand, eventually. He frowns at himself and shakes his head. 

Even late at night, the New York air is warm and muggy. Australia sniffs disdainfully as he steps out onto the street—America’s cities seem distinctly unclean, their smell a mix of steel and sweat that’s not particularly appealing. The street lights are bright but the night around them is roughly dark. He cups one hand over his eyes and squints into the darkness, trying to remember which direction the hotel lies in. Before he can make a decision, he’s interrupted by quiet voices, too far away to make out specifics. 

But Australia would know England’s voice anywhere, so he follows the noise to the alley behind the bar. Before he has the chance to wonder why England hasn’t left, yet, he sees him.

England is standing on the sidewalk, hair disheveled and shirt-buttons half undone. He’s leaning over the side of the building, arms bracketing the more-shadowed figure of France. He’s looking up at England, eyes catching the light of the streetlamps. They’re both breathing shallowly, the sound of their short breaths loud against the silence of the world around them. 

“I hate this,” England growls, before he leans even close and kisses France fiercely. Australia catches the flash of England’s teeth and the green of his eyes. France’s hands settle on England’s shoulders, fingers digging into the crushable material of England’s crisp white shirt. There is nothing gentle about the way they hold each other. England bites down on France’s lower lip, and France moans low in response. Their legs tangle together and France starts to move slowly, his hips hitching upwards to meet England’s. 

He thinks he should interrupt, perhaps clear his throat. Or maybe he should turn and walk away. But New Zealand’s voice echoes in his ear, telling him not to embarrass himself. New Zealand might not have meant anything unkind by it, but Australia still thinks catching his former guardian like this crosses the line from embarrassing to scandalous. So he stays frozen a few feet away, shielded by the corner of the old brick building. 

“They all walk straight past me, now,” England’s saying, between gasps for air and bites along France’s neck and jaw. “Ungrateful—selfish—I can’t believe—”

“Are you describing them, or yourself?” France is voice is low and idle, even as he strokes his hand across England’s stomach and begins working open the fastening of his trousers. England tips his head back, groans as France gets his pants open and begins to stroke him with slow and careful movements. 

“Fuck—off—” England’s breath hitches, and he fists a hand in France’s hair. “I can’t believe I’m even explaining this to you. It’s just like I told you before. No one needs me, anymore.”

France stills for a moment, looks directly into England’s eyes. “ _J’ai besoin de toi_.” 

England sighs heavily and seems to melt into France, his forehead against the other’s shoulder. He’s silent for a long moment as France runs his hands along England’s neck and back. 

“I know.” England’s voice sounds hoarse and tired. “That’s not what I mean. India’s putting on airs and Pakistan didn’t look at me once at today’s meeting. And Jack sitting on the Council.” England laughs, at that, bitter and too loud. Australia tries not to flinch at this mention of himself, at England’s dismissal of him. But it still hurts, as much as England’s ever hurt him.

“Forget them,” France hisses, pulling England back down into another messy kiss. He catches England’s earlobe between his teeth, presses ever closer. “That age is over. You need to accept that.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?” England asks. “Or should I ask Vietnam to answer for you?”

France’s fingers dig into England’s back. “I’ve missed your venom, mon cher. It becomes you.” 

Something seems to snap to life in England, at those words. He surges forward, grip tight on France’s shoulders. “You mean what you say, don’t you? You need me?”

France nods. “I don’t lie to you. At least, not about this.”

England must take that for some sort of consent, Australia thinks, because as soon as the words leave France’s mouth England pulls him roughly away from the wall and turns him around. France barely has the chance to catch his weight on his hands before England slams him back against the wall, hands on his hips and lips against his throat. France arches into the touch, does nothing to protest the rough treatment. Even from his vantage point, Australia can see that France is trembling. He wonders where France’s cane has been, if he dropped it to the ground before Australia found them.

“I don’t know if I ever told you,” England mutters, pushing at France’s pants. “But it helped—being needed. Feeling that pull, from others. I don’t know why, but it helped.”

“I need you.” France’s voice melts into a groan as England’s fingers push and pull along the curve of his ass. “I wouldn’t still be here if it wasn’t for you.” 

Their conversation drifts away as their bodies press close together. They are shameless in their desire, lit by streetlamps and obvious to the world. But they haven’t even noticed Australia watching them, so perhaps they don’t care.

“Not so hard, cher, I need to be able to walk tomorrow.” And yet France presses back to meet England, sweat matting his hair.

“No, you don’t,” England responds, voice a rough growl. “No, all you need to do is stand there and— I’ll carry you if I need to.”

The other noise subsides for a moment, and Australia can hear the airy breath of France’s laughter. “I think you are being very unkind, to me.”

“So what if I am?” It’s a challenge, and France doesn’t rise to it. He’s reaching to take himself in hand, but England swats his hand away and replaces it with his own. France goes completely limp, held up only by England’s grip on him and the wall he’s pressed against. They are both red and flushed and panting, and Australia feels both too close and somehow distanced from the situation. He doesn’t know what he’d call the emotional charge in the air, but then again he’s always been terrible at noticing nuance. 

France lets out a cry and tips forward, but England catches him around the waist and hoists him up. They fall against each other, England taking most of France’s weight. The air is stale and silent for a moment, and then they’re both laughing. They’re both laughing, and England is also crying.

“The world will keep turning,” France says, voice full of promise. He brushes at England’s tears with his thumb. “It will change, but you’ll still be here. And I’ll be with you.”

Cheeks blazing, Australia finally brings himself to turn around. He bites down on his lower lip and starts walking, the echo of England’s emotions chasing after him. He’s under no illusions about his former guardian’s true strength. They share a queen and parts of one another’s destinies, and no matter what anyone says Australia isn’t a fool. But he’s never seen England quite like that. 

He’s flushed and dizzy when he gets back to the hotel, only a block away from the bar. Maybe it’s the alcohol, he tells himself as he strips off his shirt and lays face-down on his bed. England’s suit jacket lies across the seat of a chair, mostly forgotten. 

He doesn’t remember the thoughts that make him reach for the phone, but he can hear himself saying, “Operator? I’d like to make a call to New Zealand.”

And then later, he hears: “ _Hello_?”

“Hey, Ze. Want to know something embarrassing? I miss you…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place in August, 1947 - I specifically had in mind [Security Council Resolution 29](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/United_Nations_Security_Council_Resolution_29), though the details didn't make it into the chapter. But Australia was a non-permanent member of the Security Council at the time, and a large part of the Council's decisions revolved around admitting new nations into the UN. Many of those nations were former British colonies. India and Pakistan had achieved independence that same month. 
> 
> Australia's human name is Jack for the purposes of this fic, and New Zealand isn't referred to by gendered pronouns on purpose.
> 
> I actually rewrote this chapter four times from different POVs, so I'm happy to finally let it out into the world. Let me know how it turned out, if you'd like!


	3. Chapter 3

Paris, 1950

The door is open when she arrives at France’s apartment, which says something in and of itself. In the six years since his liberation, France has been caged and cautious. They’d reinstated these regular dinners about a year ago, and yet every other month she’d find herself waiting outside the door, knocking to be let in. She’s trying very hard to give France his space, but she can admit to herself that being locked out—literally and metaphorically—had hurt. 

Now, however, she’s free to enter his apartment just like she had twenty years ago, with no need for anyone’s permission. It has her smiling as she steps into the entry way, until she remembers herself and adopts the slightly-stern expression she’d cultivated under years of Italian occupation. 

(They said a pretty young thing like her should’ve always been smiling, and so she decided to never give them the satisfaction. They said she should laugh and flirt and entertain them, so she’d given them only bland platitudes and no emotion while behind their backs she’d smuggled information to her police and tried to help her people as much as she could.)

For now, Monaco rids herself of those thoughts and follows the smell of truffle oil and roasting onions through the hallway and into France’s kitchen.

He’s standing over the stove, dressed in simple but elegant black slacks and a white silk shirt that’s currently protected by an old and well-used apron. His hair is tied back at the nape of his neck, and he’s humming to himself as he works, keeping close eye on the multiple pots cooking on the stove.

Monaco gives France precisely two minutes to notice her before she rolls her eyes and drawls out, “Mon frère ainé, I have arrived.” 

And her charmingly predictable brother turns to her and smiles—wide, and honest, and open—and drops the serving spoon onto the counter as he crosses the room in quick strides and wraps his arms around her waist. She gives only a half-hearted protest as he picks her up and spins her around, welcoming her with sweet words and obviously affection. 

“Alright, alright,” she says, patting his shoulders. “You just saw me last week. Put me down, now. I’m serious—you’ve got sauce on your apron, and this blouse is new!”

He laughs but sets her back on her feet, patting her head as she scowls and straightens her glasses. Up close, she can still see the fine scars around his eye—faded, now, but still visible when she looks for them. She imagines the lines like the minute cracks in fine china; they don’t really take away from the beauty of the whole, but they leave her with a mournful feeling, because they should never have happened at all. 

“Apologies, chère sœur,” France says, not sounding particularly apologetic. He’s grinning at her, still, and it’s been so long since she’s seen him so openly happy. And she knows him, knows him so well that she wants to take his happiness and lock it up somewhere, where no one can ever threaten it again. 

France has turned back to the stove, humming the last few bars of a melancholy tune as he begins serving the food out into smaller dishes. “Why don’t you go pick a bottle of wine?” he says. “We’ll be ready to eat in a moment.”

She’ll never miss a chance to have her pick of France’s wines, so she nods her assent and goes to the cabinet and to glance through the selection. There are only a few truly priceless bottles left in France’s collection—she imagines the rest being guzzled down by invading soldiers and shudders. But a moment later the sensation passes, and she reaches for a tried-and-true red and carries it back over to the table. 

Dinner is a quiet, elegant affair. France has his record player in the corner, and it croons something old and familiar as the two of them eat their way through four courses. She supposes she has America to thank for the recent upsurge in more luxurious ingredients, but no one but France can cook like this. So Monaco tells her elder brother all about how her prince is doing, and what they plan to do with the Marshall Plan money, and how she has a meeting with Romano in the New Year and she’s not sure how to approach him, anymore.

France takes a careful sip of his wine and leans his head back, considering. “Oh, it’s no different than it was before, darling,” he says, as though that’s the end of it. 

She blinks at him from behind her glasses, biting down on her lower lip to keep an explosive reaction in check. “How can you say that?” Her voice sounds brittle, bitter. 

He shrugs, and makes the gesture more elegant than it has any right to be. “I’ve lived much longer than you have. And I could remain angry over all of this, but the truth is I’m too tired.”

“Not that much longer,” Monaco mutters, under her breath. She’s reaching her seven hundredth year, and she knows that France has been around longer than that. She can’t really remember a time without him, and he’s always seemed so much older than her. But none of that had really mattered in the end, had it? “And you’re not exactly famous for being forgiving.”

His smile is sharp, precise white teeth against pale pink lips. “It doesn’t come easily to me,” he admits. He’s turned, now, so that he can look out over the Paris streets through the window. There’s a light cover of snow on the ground, lit up by street lamps. “I’ve worked very hard, to learn how to forgive. And I don’t think I’m there, just yet. But I’d rather spend my life loving, than hating.”

The phrase triggers a realization, and Monaco slaps her hand down against the table with a resounding echo. “That’s right! I’m _mad_ at you!”

France turns back to her, blinking in surprise. “You are?”

“I am,” she says, thin eyebrows slanting upwards. “You didn’t even tell me!”

“Tell you what?” France looks honestly baffled.

“That you’re _dating England_!” 

She hasn’t raised her voice, much, but France still leans slightly away from her and his eyes go wide. There’s a moment’s pause, and then he sighs slightly. When he looks up at her, he offers a weak smile. “Why don’t you go make some coffee while I get the dishes? We can talk about this in the living room.”

Monaco rises from the table with a huff, but it’s more pretense than real anger. For all that France can be shallow and careless, he really has been a good brother to her. And she loves him, and wants happiness for him as much as she wants it for her people or herself. But she’s never envisioned England of all people as part of that happiness—he’s always seemed more an obstacle to it.

They end up sitting on the couch together, and after only a moment’s hesitation Monaco snuggles against France’s side, mug of coffee carefully balanced in her hands.

“Even Seychelles knew before I did,” she says glumly, after a moment’s silence. “She found out from New Zealand, who found out from Australia.”

“He didn’t tell me he was telling the kids.” France’s voice isn’t really directed to her, more at the silence of the room.

Monaco actually blushes. “Well—he didn’t, exactly. Australia saw the two of you… after a UN meeting…” 

“Ah.” His tone is deep with understanding, and Monaco is glad she doesn’t have to explain further. France takes a slow sip of his coffee. “And you’re mad at me, because of this.”

She pushes away from him so that she can meet his eyes directly, mouth pulled into a frown and definitely not a pout. “Of course I am! For god’s sake, Francis, you’re the one who’s always going on about how much you hate him. And now I find out that you’re letting him debauch you behind seedy bars? What’s gotten into you?”

France twirls a strand of his hair around one finger, shrugs. “There’s nothing wrong with a little debauchery, chère.”

She rolls her eyes and waves a hand in a dismissive gesture. “That’s not the point, and you know it.”

They gaze at each other for a moment longer, and then France sighs and sets his mug down on the coffee table. He purses his lips, and nods. “I know, it isn’t. But you see, I love him.”

France is foolishly careless with his affections. For all that he holds a grudge, for all that he acts the snob, he could probably love anyone. She’s certainly never felt that he’s loved her less, even when he’s more concerned with Spain or Belgium or Canada or anyone else. But that makes her worry for him, because in her practical opinion being open to love is also the surest way to be vulnerable to pain. 

“Then why aren’t you happier?” she asks quietly. “If you love him, and you’re together, why’re you trying so hard to seem happy, to me?” He’s been smiling and joking and laughing all night, but none of that joy has reached his eyes. They’re still shadowed and dark, even though his scars have faded.

“I am happy,” France says. “I _am_.”

She just looks at him, waiting for him to realize that he sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself rather than her. He looks away from her, after a moment, eyes drifting down to the coffee table. A book is lying open, bent at the spine. He picks it up and brushes his fingers over the pages with a sigh.

“This book’s become very popular, in London,” he says. “Another one of my dear’s fairytales. _The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe_. I thought if I read it, I’d understand him more.”

“That’s a children’s story.”

“I know. But we can be so very, very old, and still be children anyway.” He laughs, sets the book aside. “I don’t think I can tell you how much he has done for me. And I’m not just grateful—I love him for all of it, every moment we’ve ever spent together.”

There is something so deep and raw in France’s voice that it makes Monaco’s heart ache. She has seen him flirt, and dance, and love. But she has never heard him sound like this, so sure and open and terribly vulnerable. It sets her ill at ease, because she’s always regarded him as a source of strength and stability. 

She brushes a few stray strands of pale hair behind her ear, leans back against the couch. “And he loves you back?” she asks quietly, because she can’t think of what else might be wrong.

France tilts his head back and laughs lightly. “Oh, yes. I think I can be very sure of that. You know, for a long time, it didn’t matter to me whether someone loved me back. As long as they enjoyed being with me, I didn’t mind if it was love or not. But this time, this time that’s very important.” 

“So… what is it, then?” She reaches for his hand, holds it tight between her two smaller ones. “What’s wrong?”

His fingers curl around hers, his eyes blink closed for a moment. “I don’t know—”

“Don’t give me that,” she warns, but he just shakes his head.

“I don’t know how to help him. He told me—he said he needs to be needed. And I can see that, I can see that in him. But when I can stand on my own two feet again, what will that mean for us?”

He hasn’t been using his cane all night, and he hadn’t brought it last month when he’d had dinner at her house.

“Francis,” she says. “You already can stand on your own.”

His smile is humorless as he looks at her, and she sees something like panic lurking behind his eyes. “I know,” he says. “And I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

She’s never been as easy with her affections as he is, but at this moment it’s easy to wrap her arms around his shoulders and pull him close. His head rests against her shoulder, and he’s shaking as she runs her hands along his spine, as soothing as she knows how to be. 

“It won’t matter,” she assures him. “If you love each other, then… then everything will be alright.”

“ _C’est toi pour moi, moi pour lui dans la vie_ ,” France murmurs softly, voice lilting like a song. “ _Il me l’a dit, l’a juré pour la vie…_ ” 

Édith Piaf has never sounded so desolate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had originally promised a Monaco appearance in For the Dust to Still, but never managed to fit it in. So here's Monaco, for all those who waited patiently for her. 
> 
> " _C’est toi pour moi, moi pour lui dans la vie_ / _Il me l’a dit, l’a juré pour la vie…_ ": "It's him for me, me for him in life / he said that to me, swore to me forever." From Édith Piaf's "La Vie en rose," which was released in 1946. The lyrics are happy, but Piaf's voice always sounds sad to me.
> 
> CS Lewis' _The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe_ was published in late 1950.
> 
> Monaco was occupied by Mussolini's Italy during WWII, and later by Germany. The prince had tried to keep Monaco neutral and had pro-France policies, but ultimately supported the Vichy government. 
> 
> I am hoping that when this story is complete, all the emotional beats will make sense. But you can definitely let me know how I'm doing! Thanks, as always, for reading.


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